


Someone You Will Never Meet

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Halls of Mandos, Vairë shows Maeglin what could have been, had he met Celebrimbor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone You Will Never Meet

Vairë stood over Maeglin as he looked into the tapestry, running his fingers gingerly over the threads, but as he did so the image seemed to shift and change, to  _move_ , a vision unfolding before his eyes even as he watched.

The two lords sat on simply-carven twin thrones, side by side in a hall of stone. They were not kings, Maeglin knew, without knowing how he knew. They wore ceremonial armour, of the elaborate and decorative sort that spoke of times of peace. One was all in silver white, the other in shining black, glossy as a raven’s wing, with that strange, almost oily quality to the sheen that meant it could not be anything other than galvorn. The images were sharp in the centre, but blurred towards the edges, as if he were watching a real scene from a long way away, the colours bright, perhaps even slightly more intense than was natural. But Maeglin knew better; this vision was just another part of the “healing” of Mandos. This was what could have been. The face of the one in the black armour was, he realised, his own, although it was more open, his expression an easy smile filled with confidence he had never quite possessed in life.

He squinted at the other face, curiously, the one of the silver lord. Dark-haired, like Maeglin himself, and his face bore a definite resemblance… he had the Finwëan nose, Maeglin realised, and silver eyes that Maeglin had certainly seen before but could not quite place. But other than that there was little to identify him, except… Maeglin noticed the eight-pointed star design on his armour. Maeglin frowned, even more confused.

“Who is he?” said Maeglin.

“Someone you never met in the course of your life” replied Vairë placidly. “The threads that could have met often tangle or diverge.” She said no more though, and all Maeglin could do was follow her gaze back to the tapestry.

He concentrated on the hall in which the two lords sat, with their captains around them, as well as an assortment of other noble lords and ladies, their bright robes rich and fine. The windows were high and let the bright morning sunlight stream in and pool on the black and white marble flagstones. The room’s stone walls were white, the architecture of the typical grand Ñoldorin style, but the decoration was different… he tried to place it. It looked somewhat Dwarven, he realised, with the angular designs and geometric shapes. And yet scattered through it all was the sigil of the house of Fingolfin and the ubiquitous eight-pointed star of Fëanor. There were other sigils too, his own emblem of the house of the Mole, and what looked like strange stylised holly leaves being much in evidence. A veritable hodge-podge of symbolism, thought Maeglin, that nevertheless managed to look elegant and dignified in heavy white stone.

As he watched, the version of himself in the vision leaned over to whisper something in the other’s ear, making him laugh quietly, before both turned back to face the room. They both stood up, clasped arms and the one in the silver armour spoke to those assembled in the room, before both lords swept from the room, walking in step, their cloaks streaming behind them.

Then the vision was fading, the tapestry turning simply back into a tapestry again, the threads motionless and mundane once more. It left Maeglin slightly disorientated. He looked up at Vairë, questioningly, but her face was impassive.

“Where is this place?” asked Maeglin, trying again. “And who…?”

“He is someone you did not meet” said Vairë once more. “And that is a place that does not exist. Or not in the form in which you see it. It may exist in a different form at some point, but not yet.”

Maeglin raised an eyebrow, wondering why he had thought that asking Vairë would make things any clearer. But Vairë’s hand was on his shoulder now, steering him gently but firmly back into the greyness, making it clear that the vision was over. Maeglin’s head spun. _People I didn’t meet_ , he thought. ( _Will I ever meet him? Would he be better off without meeting me? Probably.) Places that don’t exist, that never will exist… if I had made different choices…_

He shuddered, suddenly feeling disconnected, small and weak in the face of all the endless possibilities, liable to drown in the thundering sea of might-have-beens.

“Do not let the possibilities ensnare you” said Vairë, as if she knew what he was thinking ( _she almost certainly did_ , thought Maeglin uncomfortably) “for that is not why I showed you this.”

“Then why did you?” asked Maeglin.

But, as he had half expected, there was no answer, and when Maeglin turned around he saw that the weaver was gone.


End file.
